


Edinburgh at Christmas: Sketch Written After A Very Good Lunch

by ThatWriterKid



Series: Place Without Plot (Domestic Sketches of Aziraphale and Crowley from a Bored Grad Student) [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Shopping, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Edinburgh, Ineffable Partners, M/M, Scotland, World Travel, ineffable husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:13:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22718716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatWriterKid/pseuds/ThatWriterKid
Summary: Crowley drags Aziraphale to the Christmas Markets in Edinburgh. Aziraphale drags Crowley to lunch at The Dome.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Place Without Plot (Domestic Sketches of Aziraphale and Crowley from a Bored Grad Student) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633759
Comments: 7
Kudos: 15





	Edinburgh at Christmas: Sketch Written After A Very Good Lunch

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Reposted as its own work as I re-organize the collection.
> 
> Aziraphale's opinions on The Dome are not my own--I loved the decorations in the Grill Room when I was there a couple weeks ago. But I had the partridge earlier today and it was fucking divine.
> 
> Also, I can't be the only one who doesn't get the appeal of the markets. It does a ton of damage to Princes Street Gardens and there's not much to like... do? I've been there twice now and I always leave early because I get bored.
> 
> My mom's visiting me for the holiday and I think I can get her to go up with me in the massive chair swing, though, so that would be worth it.

“Must we? They’re the _worst_ place, always put out the Christmas menu in October—”

“Yes, well. It’s the twenty-fourth, you can no longer complain that it’s not the Christmas season. Anyway, I made a reservation.”

“Miracling up a table for two doesn’t count.”

“No, no, a _real_ reservation. Over the telephone, back when we planned this.”

They were one of hundreds of couples in the Edinburgh Christmas Market, and Aziraphale was making a _show_ of it. He’d tucked his arm and cheek alike into Crowley while they walked. What was next, ducking into a close and—no, Crowley stopped the thought. That sounded quite nice, actually. But there was no longer a ticking clock, and neither of them felt the need to move quickly. A tryst in the close couldn’t hold a candle to bickering with Aziraphale over evening plans.

The Christmas Markets were most impressive at night, when the lights could contrast against the darkness, but they weren’t really here to enjoy themselves. Aziraphale had booked lunch reservations at The Dome and this was Crowley’s revenge. If they were going to do the couple-y Christmas experience, they were doing the _entire_ experience, and the demon had always liked the markets anyway. The festival was crowded, playing tacky commercialized music and causing cavities in small children for months on end. From November through January, it ground out low-grade evil through Edinburgh, like the darkness and rain weren’t enough.

But this _blessed_ angel.

Crowley should have known better. Edinburgh _was_ one of Aziraphale’s long-term projects, after all. A city of poets and philosophers. Crowley should have known that Aziraphale would flit about the markets like the literal angel he was, nibbling on candy floss and pretzels. It wasn’t _good_ food—it was festival food, cheap and campy—but it smelled incredible, and Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind. The screaming children around them turned into laughing children, the lovers’ quarrels into lovers’ embraces, the exhausted vendors’ scowls into relaxed shoulders and a little relief in comfortable shoes. People actually _enjoyed_ the Ferris wheel. Crowley should have complained about the unbalanced miracling again, but it was like the angel couldn’t help himself.

And, if he were honest, Crowley didn’t mind watching. They wandered through the stalls, and Aziraphale bought an ornament for the tree in the bookshop. Crowley convinced him to go on a ride—just the merry-go-round, but it was one more than he’d expected—and they both lamented the fact that the one year they’d attended, the markets had decided to do away with the ice skating rink. By noon, they were leaning against the fence by the Walter Scott Monument as Crowley stole bits of Aziraphale’s candy floss and watching the giant swing ride. It lifted people above the monument, high above the city, and it was nothing less than a miracle that no one had thrown up on the spire yet.

“All right, you’ve got me,” said Crowley. “This was a good idea.”

“This was _your_ idea,” said Aziraphale.

“Not the markets. The trip. Seeing ‘em.” The angel beamed. He leaned into Crowley’s arm again, cuddling against the leather jacket. It was like a breath of fresh air after six thousand years in a stale room: Crowley could breathe easier with Aziraphale there, on his arm, eating overpriced candy floss and watching young parents try to navigate a pram through the festival. “We won.”

“We won.” Aziraphale straightened up again, sniffed. “Although, to be honest, it was really our _incompetence_ that saved—”

“Oh, hush up.” Neither of them could help laughing. “When’s our reservation?”

It was for one-thirty, and they arrived at one-twenty-nine. The Dome was well-known for its Christmas displays, right off the top: the face of the building was now decorated in garlands (massive ones, wrapped like snakes around the grand pillars) and wreaths in every window and panel of the façade. Inside, Aziraphale was instantly (and Crowley secretly) charmed by the festivity. More garlands along the stairwells that led up to other rooms. White trees on the landings, and in the concierge area, accenting the marble floors.

Above them, Christmas trees hung suspended, illuminated by festive lights and capped at the trunk with silver-wrapped presents. They spun in the air, lazy and magical, shining with the season.

They were right in the middle of the Grill Room, which Aziraphale had almost been hoping to avoid.

Not that it was a problem: the main hall was absolutely _spectacular_. The room was naturally beautiful, a circular bar surrounded by the dining area and black marble columns. The floor was a delicate mosaic, the ceiling a painted plaster vault set with tiled windows. At Christmastime, a massive tree—a full story tall—had been placed above the central bar, covered in lights and baubles. It shifted through colors: red, purple, blue, gold, white. Garlands had been wrapped around the columns. Lights and poinsettias and nutcrackers were strewn through the room. It was, in Aziraphale’s opinion, _just_ on the right side of too much. Any more and it would be tacky, but any less and it wouldn’t be magic.

But, well, it was bright, and loud, and just a touch too much for _them._

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. Crowley was the one who pulled aside a waiter and asked if there was a spot free in the Club Room instead.

Wood-paneled. Still festive—trees surrounded with nutcrackers topped the divider between booths—but the massive built-in bookshelf against one wall may as well have been a sign that this was more _their scene_. Crowley sprawled into his chair and Aziraphale perused the menu—small plates here, not a full lunch, but they didn’t need a full lunch anyway. The angel ordered partridge and a leek roll, and the spread of Scottish cheeses when they had a moment, and Crowley found himself watching and smiling.

Aziraphale noticed, and Crowley didn’t stop. Instead he took the angel’s hand on the table, and Aziraphale squeezed.

“We’re being quite open about this today, aren’t we?”

It was the first time either of them had actually _mentioned_ their newfound casual affection. Not that they’d been holding back; it simply hadn’t needed to be voiced. They were in the same place, here. For once. For the first time in six thousand years.

“Eh,” said Crowley, which meant yes, they were, and wasn’t that nice.

“Thank you for indulging me. I know this has all been rather silly.”

“Neh,” said Crowley, which meant, no, it wasn’t silly, and he was enjoying himself.

“Are we ever going to talk about it?” Aziraphale asked.

“Nyah,” said Crowley, which meant he’d sooner beg Gabriel for his wings back than talk about his feelings.

Aziraphale laughed, and he drew Crowley’s hand up to his lips and kissed it. Right there, in broad daylight, in front of a dozen nutcrackers and Christmas trees and their full-sleeve-tattoo, handlebar-mustachioed waiter. Crowley didn’t make any noise at all, just smiled, his eyes meeting the angel’s like coins against a clear sky.

When the food came he stole a few bites of Aziraphale’s partridge.


End file.
